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<title>five oh eight a.m. by everlastingwonder</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25125562">five oh eight a.m.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/everlastingwonder/pseuds/everlastingwonder'>everlastingwonder</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Poetry, Prose Poem</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:46:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>298</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25125562</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/everlastingwonder/pseuds/everlastingwonder</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>a poem I wrote at 5:08 a.m.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>five oh eight a.m.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the corners of the early morning there is music.</p>
<p>There is music in the five long tolls of the church bell.</p>
<p>There is music in the ringing in my ears as I finally turn off my screen<br/>and my headphones go dead.</p>
<p>In the whir of the fan blades as the power to their motor is cut<br/>and they gradually spin down.</p>
<p>In the low woodwind hum of the pipes in the walls<br/>and the high soprano whine of the lamp by my bed<br/>that I am unsure whether anyone but me can hear.</p>
<p>There is music in the keys as I type.<br/>At any other time it would be a staccato percussion,<br/>repetitive, with rolls and trills and flourishes<br/>but right now I am focused.<br/>It is a melody, legato, and I relish the sound of the dance of my fingers as I catch them<br/>in a rare and blissful moment of creative fire when even my most demanding of minds does not dare to tell me<br/>that I must type and delete the same letter or space or punctuation mark<br/>sixteen times within a single heartbeat's space.</p>
<p>And yes, there is music in the silence. In the cracks<br/>in the corners of the early morning there is<br/>an instrument that has no name but resonates and revels in the stillness that I know so well.<br/>It rises and it swells and it crescendos into an overture that makes no sound at all<br/>and as the pale gray light creeps through the blinds it soars high above the sun<br/>heralding triumphant Morning with the selfsame voice that at once wails its elegy for Night.</p>
<p>In the corners of the early morning there is music that no symphony can play<br/>and it is mine alone to hear.</p>
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